


arcana

by minorthirds



Category: Final Fantasy XIV, Persona 5
Genre: Final Fantasy XIV AU, Gen, Loose AU that minces FFXIV events together, M/M, Other, at this point spoilers for patch 3.55b - The Far Edge of Fate, non sequential storytelling, probably should know some FFXIV, this is going to be something ridiculous
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2018-12-16 10:36:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11826963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minorthirds/pseuds/minorthirds
Summary: As Warriors of Light on separate paths, Akira Kurusu and Goro Akechi pass from time to time into one another's orbit.These are the tales of those planetary motions.(iii. on the fringes)





	1. i. in need of succor

**Author's Note:**

> this is a little fun side project that i'll continue here and there.
> 
> most oneshots should be in the same timeline unless i mark them as otherwise.
> 
> hmu on [twitter](http://twitter.com/dezzydelphinae) if u want.
> 
> enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i. in need of succor
> 
> wherein akira has a mishap that injures his pride, and minfilia sends an insult as a companion.

It isn't unusual to see his fellow Scions around.

 

Not the Sharlayans -- for the most part, Akira knows when and where to expect them. Thancred’s boyish bounce and charming grin in the dunes of Thanalan, Y’shtola’s crisp, refreshing candor in the ocean breezes of La Noscea, and Yda’s and Papalymo’s sweet-sour camaraderie in the dense foliage of the Black Shroud.

 

His adventurer friends… not so much.

 

Ann Takamaki might be in Bronze Lake honing her black magic, or in Ishgard dabbling in astrology. Yusuke Kitagawa could be painting the sunset over the Silver Bazaar or tracking down rare books and materials in Idyllshire. And on and on. When the Scions are short on missions and instead assign tasks that border on the menial, it’s not unusual to pass them by in groups, either.

 

At least, everyone but Akira.

 

He sort of sticks to himself. The companionship of a Carbuncle is all he particularly wants for -- a perk of being a summoner, he guesses, that you can be alone without ever truly being on your own.

 

It isn't unusual to see his fellow Scions around, but they all know him well enough to come calling and leave him to his devices within the hour. Enough time to swap pleasantries and offer succor (ha, Akira thinks) but never long enough to see the fur on Akira’s black tail stand on end, his fluffy dark ears twitch and flatten.

 

That probably plays a part. Hyuran to the last, all of them, save Kitagawa who's half-Elezen and really only has the height to show for it (that and some vaguely pointed ears). Not that they're prejudiced so much as… well… vaguely ill at ease, perhaps. There’s a language barrier of the body between them, the tail explicitly.

 

Akira knows he’s letting his thoughts wander, because he’s bleeding out on the grass far, far above Eorzea and his chest is starting to get tight with lack of oxygen.

 

He’s somewhere in the Vundu tribal grounds and his Carbuncle has long since melted into aether -- his grimoire is laying just out of arm’s reach and he’s half-hidden behind one of the shell-like structures to avoid the gazes of wandering Vundu patrols and their pet sanuwa.

 

Akira would love to summon the magic to Physick himself a few times or teleport to Camp Cloudtop for aid, but the aether won’t come to his fingertips without his book in hand and he’s too shaken, too starved for breath to reach it.

 

What a ridiculous end for a Scion. For a Warrior of Light. All because he’s too quiet to travel with his comrades, too withdrawn to immerse himself in an environment of camaraderie.

 

Akira stares up at the clouds.

 

He hopes the Scions will send another Warrior of Light to quell Bismarck. His linkpearl only showers static in his ear when he tries to call Minfilia or Makoto Niijima.

 

He’ll die up here in the great blue but there will be others to take his place, and --

 

“You're looking rather worse for wear.”

 

A shadow looms over him.

 

The figure clicks their tongue, snaps their fingers, and…

 

like a cooling wind the healing magic spreads over Akira, sinking deep into his bones and knitting flesh together and replacing lost blood and stimulating his humours.

 

The scholar’s fairy chitters at him as if admonishing him.

 

“Hush, Robin,” says Goro Akechi, and Akira shouldn't be surprised.

 

It’s not unusual to see his fellow Scions around.

 

But he’s only had the pleasure of exchanging words at length with this one, as active as he is, as private as he is with Minfilia.

 

Akira stares up at the scholar, at his fellow Warrior of Light, and rolls his shoulders. “Top secret mission bring you here?”

 

Goro laughs. “You could say that.”

 

But he offers his hand to Akira, spreads his Protect spell to the summoner with a click of his fingers.

 

“Minfilia’s been worried about you traveling alone and sent me to keep an eye on you.”

 

Akira pages through his grimoire, frowning delicately at the wrinkled pages of his diagrams. “Is that so?”

 

“It's a good thing she did,” Goro says. “Else we’d be one shorter… and adventurers with the Echo are in shorter supply than you'd imagine.”

 

Akira and his comrades - his friends - are all the Scions have.

 

He knows that.

 

The Miqo’te summoner turns his back to Goro, straightening his coat about himself. “Thank you,” he says stiffly.

 

“You're welcome.” Goro’s voice is irksomely bright even despite Akira’s tone. “Now where are we headed?”

 

“Me?” Akira turns to view the scholar in profile and lifts an eyebrow, tapping into his abundant aether reserves to call a Ruby Carbuncle to his side. “I'm headed for the Vundu Aetheryte. And you should be off.”

 

“Yes, we should be!” the scholar corrects him cheerfully. “Lead on, O Humble Summoner.”

 

“Go back to the Rising Stones,” Akira tells him, and spins on one heel to walk away.

 

An impressive exit, if he says so himself.

  
Impressive enough, maybe, that he can pretend to ignore the quick footsteps of his impromptu, required traveling companion at his heels.


	2. ii. nighttime in ishgard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ii. nighttime in ishgard
> 
> akira can't sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im very sleepy

Akira Kurusu.

 

That's his name.

 

He rolls over in the inn bed and draws the scratchy linen sheet around his arms.

 

That's his name. He remembers the feeling of penning it for the first time in the Arcanists’ Guild ledger, under the watchful eyes of the acolytes.

 

Akira Kurusu. An adventurer newly come to Limsa Lominsa.

 

If he closes his eyes, he can smell the salt breeze -- after so long in Eorzea it’s become home to him.

 

He hasn't told any of the Scions this:

 

He’s not an adventurer for simply fun and profit.

 

He'd been driven out.

 

His tribe had left him for dead for a crime he didn't commit.

 

Akira rolls over again, unable to get comfortable, squashing his own tail in the process and frowning.

 

He's fine casting himself as the quirky loner if it will allow him to maintain a safe distance. He can put up with his fellow Scions thinking he’s some kind of stuck-up prick, because that's not as bad as trusting them so blindly they hold the weight of his life in their hands.

 

Akira shivers.

 

Ishgard is cold.

 

He's lucky his traveling robes are so thick -- they keep out the worst of the icy winds when he’s on the move, but his adrenaline plays a part too.

 

One of his robes is cast over the bed to serve as an extra blanket -- Akira scoops it closer and curls into the foetal position with it bundled against him.

 

Even then, he’s still restless, turning over every few seconds as if trying to align himself with all of the softest spots on the chocobo-feather mattress.

 

It’s a good thing he’s gotten used to the smell of them.

 

The incessant cold continues to knock on the sill of his window, so Akira gives up on the idea of sleep and strikes the candle next to his bed to life.

 

It is sometime in the early hours of the morning, as best he can tell by peering out at the moon and the stars.

 

Perhaps a walk will do him some good.

 

Akira tugs the robe serving as his blanket off of his bed and casts it about himself in a bleary-eyed haze. Stumbles into worn travel boots that clash with his sleeping trousers, but he shrugs rather than spare the effort to change.

 

Ishgard’s frigid night air is bracing.

 

The forum just outside of the Forgotten Knight is deserted at this time of night but for one solitary Temple Knight dozing off at his post.

 

The Temple Knight, and --

 

A cloaked figure he’s unsure about is ascending the long path from the aetheryte plaza, some sort of steaming…  _ something  _ in a tankard clutched in their hand.

 

Akira ignores the person and takes slow, leisurely steps toward the statue crowning the center of the forum.

 

Slow and leisurely so as not to startle the guard. He's allowed to be here, no question, but still…

 

He can't quell the instinct of fear in the presence of the law.

 

The cloaked figure joins him at the statue, he notices. Their steps are clicking closer until they're several feet from him, too close to be strangers but not close enough to be friends.

 

“It’s a restless night, hm?”

 

Akira turns at that, one of his ears openly flickering with distrust.

 

The hooded cloak obscures the speaker’s face, but the voice seems familiar…

 

“Ah, sorry,” the man says, sheepishly reaching to tug it down upon reading Akira’s glance at it. “Is that better?”

 

“You,” Akira responds.

 

Goro Akechi laughs. “I didn't think you'd feel such animosity after the circumstances of our first meeting. I saved your life, didn't I? Should I not have?”

 

Akira looks away, instead up at the stars, already feeling more tired than he had when he came out here. “I didn't say that,” he says, a little chagrined.

 

He hadn't meant to make the guy feel bad.

 

It's a weird night for him.

 

“I'm only joking,” Akechi assures him. He offers his tankard. “Cider?”

 

“Thanks, I'm all right,” Akira politely declines. It smells wonderful, that can't be denied, but…

 

“The Jeweled Crozier is amazing,” Akechi says, carrying on the quasi-conversation seamlessly. “Nothing compared to the Sapphire Avenue or Hawkers’ Alley or the Stalls, of course, but amazing for a city-state that operates with an isolationist policy. I didn't think they'd have Gridanian cider -- certainly not cider this good.”

 

“It's good with those Ishgardian flat pastries,” Akira says, scuffing his boot on the cobbles. He wouldn't have added anything, but… somehow, talking to Akechi about nothing is quieting his racing thoughts.

 

“Oh, pancakes?” Akechi is all too eager to correct him. “They’re delicious. To die for, even.”

 

Akechi’d left himself open for all kinds of answering barbs, but any will to make one dies on Akira’s tongue. Instead, he yawns, flexing his toes inside his boots and stretching his tail out behind him.

 

“You seem exhausted,” Akechi says quietly. “Please turn in soon and don't push yourself too hard.”

 

Akira nods. “I should be getting back to my room anyway.” Now that he’s finally settled enough to find sleep, that is. “Thanks for the company.”

 

He feels Akechi’s eyes on him all the way back into the tavern.

 

He's lonesome like this. He knows that.

 

Akira’s built for company. It's obvious after this night.

 

Something has to change, he thinks, blowing out the candle and climbing back into bed. He's got to make some choices.

  
But that day can wait until he’s gotten his hours of sleep and some morning pancakes with cider.


	3. iii. on the fringes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> iii. on the fringes
> 
> the warriors of light, together at last, strike out east into gyr abania.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [updates 3 months later as if nothing has happened]
> 
> hey im back at it again, sorry i dissociated through this entire semester thus far and im still really far behind on classwork but fuck it [shrug emoji]
> 
> abrupt turn to seriousness and the barest hint of a plot. i do have an overarching one in mind but these are just moments, scenes, in that plot.
> 
> find me on twitter im @gayprotagonist, find me on ffxiv im ahlaina suhm on hyperion
> 
> enjoy

_The world ends in fire._

_Fire, screams, the stench of ceruleum as castrum pipes are ruptured, torn and bloody bodies in tatters of red, blue, yellow stained too dark under the night sky._

_There’s a dragon – and there’s Papalymo – and then there isn’t, a_ force _throwing them all back, the Scions’ vaunted Warriors of Light, that’s them, and they’re all scrambling to untangle themselves from each other and rush to the airship railing and watch one of their dear friends sacrifice himself for them because all the blessings of the Mother can’t save the world from another Calamity, but a binding spell and a life might._

 _One last touch of Papalymo’s aether on their skin and a failed spell and what was all of it even worth, anyway? If they can’t kill Ilberd’s primal, if the Echo’s too weak for that, then what is the point? All of the pain they’ve endured,_ caused – _all of that, and they’re going to die here, the Scions and the Grand Companies of Eorzea and some odd Garlean soldiers and beyond, all of Aldenard burning._

_The dragon’s shriek rents the air –_

_The airship’s deck slants suddenly, sharply, and he grasps blindly for traction, claws gouging and screaming against metal as he slips –_

* * *

 

Akira jolts awake with a gasp.

He’s bound tightly in his bedroll, which keeps him from flailing his arms and legs and tail about, but in the dark and frenzied reaches of his mind the fabric screams _“Danger!”_.

_Rrrrip._

Gods damn it all. With the oxygen flooding his system and the low glow of campfire embers washing across his immediate surroundings he’s regaining a grip on reality, and his claws are stuck clean through the bedroll, at least a fulm-long set of tears gaping open where he’d tried to blindly claw his way out of his bindings.

All around him are the sights of his comrades breathing evenly, undisturbed by the noise, accustomed to the sounds that come part and parcel with camping out of doors.

Not all of them asleep, however.

Ryuji prods idly at the smoldering fire with one particularly straight beech branch, one crackling ember lighting up his sleepless eyes, tight-lipped expression, and blond stubble.

“Can’t sleep either, huh?” Ryuji beats Akira to the comment, Akira himself with his mouth open, just poised to say – something, anything.

It’s been two weeks since the Eorzean Alliance had taken Castrum Oriens, but the shared nightmares of the Warriors of Light – probably spurred on by their mutual gifts of the Echo bleeding into one another – are vivid enough still to have been lived seconds prior.

Akira shakes his head gently. Words come to the tip of his tongue and perch there like shy divers; they had been through a lot, all of them, a lot together – and yet a small, hidden part of him, the part that aches thinking of the tribe that cast him out on a whim and the right word from the right person, thinks _I don’t know these people at all. I can’t ever know them, not really._

They’re adventurers, Scions, holed up in a cave by the Velodyna together on the way to the headquarters of the Ala Mhigan Resistance. Warriors of Light helping in the struggle against the Empire, the struggle for freedom.

All these commonalities and Akira still feels a world apart from them. All of them, even Morgana – another non-Hyuran, alike to him, but his Lalafellin stature isn’t as stark a difference as Akira’s furred appendages.

Akira’s eyes wander across Akechi’s empty bedroll.

Ryuji sees him looking, and his mouth purses even more firmly. “He’s been gone for a few hours. Kinda shady, if you ask me. But he’s been a recluse forever, you know? Just got worse when Minfilia–”

Akira pretends not to notice Ryuji’s voice cracking.

Instead he slips out of his mauled bedroll, picks up his traveling cloak to throw around his shoulders against the bracing chill of nighttime in the wastes, and steps gingerly around sleeping forms and traveling packs and weapons.

Ryuji watches him walk outside, and Akira catches his gaze when he turns back at the mouth of the cave.

One of Akira’s ears flicks, displaying his flash of unease at the sight of Ryuji’s hooded, sleepless eyes. But the dragoon only looks back down at his stick, his discount lance, jabbing at another coal idly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Goro Akechi is sitting a little ways down the Velodyna, beside the bank, offering Robin Hood a berry picked from the foliage nearby.

He doesn’t react visibly when Akira takes a seat on a rock a few fulms away.

“Do you feed your pet treats and things, too?” Goro asks him suddenly, however, and being addressed without being reacted to sends a shiver down Akira’s spine and up his tail, making his fur bristle.

“Never thought to,” he admits, gazing out over the water, watching the moonlight reflect off the ripples and the sarcosuchi lumbering through the shallows. “They’re just aether. They’re not really alive.”

Goro’s amber eyes glint at him through the darkness, bright to Akira’s night-eyes. “How do you know they’re not really alive? Did you ever think to ask?”

Akira doesn’t answer that.

Robin Hood chitters softly in the silence, holding the berry in its tiny glowing hands and nibbling at it.

Do fairies made of aether even have stomachs? Where does it go?

If Goro catches Akira’s ears flickering in confusion, the tip of his tail lashing, he doesn’t remark on it, folding his hands in his lap and gazing out over the babbling river.

The scholar hides it better than Ryuji does, but it’s there in the tilt of his mouth, in his shoulders, in the way bare wisps of what Akira might guess to be a deeply-held hurt akin to Akira’s own radiate off of him when he’s distracted from working to hide it: the profound sense of loss, of sudden vulnerability that’s wormed its way into each of their chests.

For all of their gifts and armor and crystals, they’re just people.

Akira’s tail flicks again.

_“Did you ever think to ask?”_

Did anyone ever think to ask the Warriors of Light – the people, not the weapons?

Wordlessly, Akira rises to his feet and leaves Goro to his silence. Leaves Goro to himself, his fairy, and the specter, the hole in his life where Minfilia – his friend, his confidant – used to be.

Like an injured cat Goro had retreated, slunk off to lick his wounds in private.

A habit they have in common.

And Akira understands it.


End file.
